


Three Strands of Gold with a Side of Guilt

by Lidsworth



Series: Three Strands of Gold [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Past mentions of neglect, Tumblr request, and finfarfin dies protecting the silms instead of finwe, feanor is a good brother, feanor loves his brothers, much guilt and sadness ensues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Finarfin loses his life protecting Feanor’s jewels rather than Finwe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Strands of Gold with a Side of Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> What if, in a AU where Feanor cares for and loves his brothers, Finarfin are the one who gets killed when Morgoth steals the silmarils and his two brothers goes to M-E to revenge him?-> A tumlr anon. 
> 
> This came out darker, and guilt trippier than I had originally planned. Feanor loves both his brothers, though he’s harsh on Fingolfin in this fic. I really enjoyed writing this to be honest. Forgive any mistakes, I was watching Penny Dreadful while proof reading!
> 
> Also, do check it out on my tumblr here -> http://inkstranger.tumblr.com/post/146528307414/what-if-in-a-au-where-f%C3%ABanor-trusted-and-loved

His horse came to a steady gallop as the gates of Formenos came into view over the horizon. And the clouds, now doused in a Darkness whose shadow seemed to reach Feanor despite his considerable distance from the stronghold brought him to a complete halt. A sickening death staled the once winter crisped air and the sky above head, stained of red, warned the party of the catastrophe they were sure to find upon their arrival into the fort.

Whispers that belonged to his seven sons, his father and his brother echoed behind him in a flurry, amplifying the murmurs into something much louder than they were. The clanking of horse hooves slowed in unison. The decay in the air was infectious, stretching out like a skeletal hand that tickled at their fea’s.

The area was not safe, and Morgoth’s presence lingered about like a sour aftertaste, and all those arriving suffered the backwash. All except Feanor, of course. For his lust of his jewels he prioritized above all else, and the concern for his brother, for who’s hair ignited the three creations, mattered not to Feanor. In fact, in that moment, blind with love for the Silmarils, the eldest brother had forgotten that Arafinwe had even resided in Formenos all together.

And upon realizing what Morgoth’s wrath upon his fort meant for his jewels, Feanor kicked his horse into speed.

                                               OOOOOOOO  
He had known as soon as he stepped foot into the building that his jewels had been taken from him, for he was met with a sight unlike anything his sheltered life in Valinor had allowed him to see. Mangled corpses appeared before him like twisted rose bushes, accompanied with dark vines obtuse and thick with thorns. Only these twisted roots were threaded intestines and bent legs, thorns were weapons which stuck out at all angles, useless against the wrath of Morgoth.

The stench of decay hung about the air, and Feanor fought the urge to bring a cloth to his face in order to avoid the odor. Though he was frozen in place, rendered a statue amongst the dead.

These elves, he knew. He had seen them alive, once. Had spoken to them, conversed with them, played with them, and eaten with them. These elves, they had been his friends, his comrades, and his colleagues.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of a familiar head of silver amongst the bodies that was heavy and damp with dark blood. Upon this discovery, the veil of malice that his jewel lust had created lifted.  

She was the only teleri elf who had agreed to join the party going to Formenos, only because her husband had so eagerly volunteered to protect his older brother’s precious jewels.

Anything to please his older brothers. Anything to have some worth in their Father’s eyes. And yet Feanor, knowing Morgoth’s wrath for his Silmarils, had so readily allowed Finarfin to protect his jewels.

Therefore, he dared not turn his head for fear of stumbling upon a crown of golden hair amongst the swamp of the dead. Though he needn’t look far to face the reality of what he had done.  

He didn’t notice when they arrived, not until the harrowing scream from his father ricocheted like thunder off of the walls, soon amplified as Fingolfin joined the fray.

Feanor simply closed his eyes and balled his fist, afraid to face the salvaged pieces of his little brother’s corpse.  For the guilt was far too great, great enough to make a coward of even Feanor.

There was a scuffle in the room. Floor squeaking as shoes slid against blood, as clothes and buckles shuffled due to the commotion took place behind him. There was a muffled shout amongst the tears, and suddenly there was a hand at his shoulder, digging deep into his muscles through the fabric of his shirt.  

“Turn and look at what your idiocy has done, brother! Is your despair for the loss of your jewels so great that you do not even weep over our brother, who has lost his life because of you!?” It was Fingolfin, so foolishly assuming that his reluctance to turn was due to his desire for his stolen jewels.

Though upon looking into Feanor’s eyes, Fingolfin knew he had made a grievous mistake in his thoughts.

Upon seeing Finwe cradling the corpse—or what was left of the corpse, for his waist and below had gone missing and his intestines spilled freely over Finwe’s lap—Feanor fell to his knees and screamed.

He was assaulted with memories of his younger brother.

A tiny ball of energy always peeking his head into his workstation, blond hair catching the light of the trees, blue eyes gazing madly at Feanor’s work, trying his best to help his beloved older brother anyway he could.

Once, Feanor had made him a toy set of tools, so that he could work with him, sit by his feet and create his own master pieces.

Even later in life, as Finwe’s attention turned towards only Feanor and Fingolfin, the High Princes of the Noldor, Feanor did everything in his power to make Finarfin feel important—feel equal and loved.  He often wondered, did Finwe honestly value Finarfin at all, did he care that he was all alone? Their sisters had the love of Indis, both brothers had Finwe’s love, while Finarfin was forced to salvage what scraps of affection he could get from their father.

In a way Feanor had adopted his younger brother as another son, had praised him where Finwe did not, had encouraged him where Fingolfin should have, had nourished him when Indis was distracted.

Though his presence alone had been enough to warrant Feanor’s love, Finarfin had _always_ tried to stand out. And the sad, understandable truth was that Feanor’s love was not enough.

He had so eagerly offered up three strands of his Vanyar hair for the creation of the Silmarils, despite his wife’s counsel against it, hoping that his father would notice him.  And when Finwe, forever preoccupied with Feanor’s creations had overlooked Finarfin’s contribution, the younger brother had been crushed.  

Perhaps that was why Feanor had granted him the protection of his jewels despite Morgoth’s yearning for them, and perhaps Finwe had praised Finarfin for such a task due to his subconscious desire to rid himself of a useless son.

The guilt clearly was not Feanor’s own, and he would do well to make them _all_ remember that.

“Silence Nolofinwe! Had you paid any mind to him, we would not be here cradling half of his body! He hungered for your attention!” Spat Feanor as he stood and glared at his brother, then to his father, “He craved the love of you both! I accept that I sentenced him to his death—and for that Morgoth _will_ pay—but was it not your ignorance of his existence that led him to please in ways unimaginable. I granted him such a task in hopes that you would honor him with your presence in life. How ironic it is, now, he has gotten what he has wanted but at the cause lost a son and a brother, and four orphaned children!”

Feanor had not screamed at his father or brother since childhood, and had certainly never guilt tripped either of them to such a degree.  But he would be damned if they so foolishly placed Arafinwe’s death on his hands and his hands alone. He had dealt with such guilt for far too long.

He had marched over to his father and yanked the golden haired body into his arms, seizing what was left of it into a tight hug. He nearly gagged at the sight of his father and brother making such a scene; this was the most attention they had ever given Finarfin.

It was easy to block out their protest, to initiate tunnel vision and focus only on his brother. Even in death, his hair still gleamed golden, yet the flushed cheeks and tan skin had gone with the life of his body. Through tears, Feanor smiled gently at him, and tried to remember him as the bustling ball of energy he was.

“Be at peace now, little brother,” whispered Feanor silently, as he placed a kiss atop of his brother’s cool head. And with that action, he had lost whatever sanity had made him Feanor. With a new rage ignited within his eyes, he carried Finarfin to Earwen’s body, and gently placed him beside his wife.

“If you have any shame for the life that you gave him, there is yet a chance to redeem yourselves.” He stood and turned to his brother and father, face stern and eyes dry of tears. Sadness had melted into pure anger and determination, everlasting now like ice.

“Come with me to middle earth. We will recovery my Silmarils and defeat Morgoth for what he has done to Arafinwe. Hesitate and I know that you still prioritize him below all else, join me and he will see your dedication for him from the Halls of Mandos.”

He waited not for his father nor his brother to respond, he waited not for his sons, who sorted out the dead, to follow him. He only marched forward, out of Formenos and to his horse.

A sick sort of sadism burned in his fea as he rode forward, plans of war and desolation already heavy in his mind, like a thick, suffocating smoke bleeding into a closed room. A thousand ways he would make Morgoth pay, a thousand ways he would make him suffer.

He would avenge his baby brother and he would recover his jewels, whether his father and brother joined him or not.

**Author's Note:**

> check out my tumblr, inkstranger.tumblr.com! I do headcannons and request there!  
> Have a nice week and God bless!


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